


Turn And Face Yourself

by SherlocksSister



Series: Fixes for Four [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Healing, M/M, Missing Scene, Remorse, Season/Series 04, Shame, Understanding Sherlock, set between TLD and TFP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 04:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9419651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister/pseuds/SherlocksSister
Summary: The day after their hug, John has to admit somethings to both himself and Sherlock.This makes John face the consequences of giving Sherlock that beating and understand why Sherlock let him do it. It also looks at how their friendship has then healed so much at the beginning of The Final Problem.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I fell in love, hard and fast, with a picture on Tumblr of Benedict behind the scenes rehearsing the underwater fight scene with Ajay. There was this sweaty curl, you see, plastered to his temple. I decided to use this a prompt for myself to write a fic, most likely a porn-without-plot. Then The Final Problem happened and that sweaty curl took me in entirely a different direction. I may write that PWP yet.

The cake had been a good idea; his slice of coffee and walnut gateaux had given John a much needed boost. Molly had brought Rosie with her and for about ten minutes they all pretended that they were just a normal group of friends celebrating a birthday. Rosie had started to grump around six and Molly had gently reminded John that it was getting time for her bath and bed. They strolled back to 221b, Sherlock surprising everyone when he offered Molly the crook of his arm and a small smile. She had already agreed to do the overnight shift with him.

Holding Rosie in his arms, John had looked back at Sherlock in the doorway. Feeling eyes on him, Sherlock had raised his head and held John’s steady gaze, given a nod and turned to go in.

“See you tomorrow, Sherlock.”

“Yes, John.” There had been a hint of smile.

Bathed, fed and cuddled, Rosie had fallen asleep in John’s arms. It was the first night since Mary’s death that they had been alone together. John gazed down at her beautiful, sleeping face and for the second time that day, filled a tiny piece of the chasm inside him. He carefully laid the sleeping baby onto her blanket on the floor before folding up the travel cot and taking it upstairs to his own bedroom. With a silent prayer of thanks, he managed to transfer his daughter to the cot without waking her. Then John lay down on his own bed, watching her little face as she slept. 

His confession this afternoon kept going around in his head ‘I wanted more, Mary. I still do’. He hadn’t needed to say it to her, she already knew, as her DVD message had proven. He had needed to admit it to himself. He wanted more. Mary had not been enough. She had never been enough and John had always known that. He thought he had buried that need so deep that it would stay safely hidden, compacted under the layers of responsibility, commitment and friendship. He had not expected it to be be forced out with the guilt and anger that had erupted from the opened chasm.  What he really wanted, though, he could not have; was not an option and had never been an option. Instead he had distracted himself by flirting with the only other person to show any interest in him, a stranger on a bus. Pathetic.

But this afternoon he had said it, out loud, to himself and to Sherlock. The relief was cataclysmic. Of course, Sherlock had not known what John was talking about; all that deflecting rant about Irene Adler had made sure of that, but still he had taken John in his arms as John had finally broken. 

John lay in the dark listening to his child’s tiny breaths and remembered the warmth of Sherlock’s arm around him, the sound of his heart beat as John sobbed into his chest and the delicate, tentative warmth of his hand on John’s neck. John replayed that single sensation over and over in his head until he drifted off, sleeping for the first time in more than a week.

Rosie fills her nappy just as they are about to walk out of the door the next morning. The time it takes to strip her of the snowsuit, change her nappy, put her in clean trousers because the  _ fucking nappy _ has leaked means that John is running fifteen minutes late for his shift to stay with Sherlock. 

Molly meets them at the flat door, coat already on. She has dark shadows under her eyes and the lines around her mouth are etched deep. 

“Hi Molly. God, I’m so sorry I’m late, we had a bit of bother with a nappy.” John waves down at Rosie in her car seat who is gurgling happily at Molly who, in turn, bends down to stroke the baby’s cheek and coo at her. “How is he?”

Standing slowly and keeping her gaze on Rosie, Molly sighs. “It was a difficult night. He’s asleep now.”

“Oh. Right, well, I’ll just… er, would you be OK to take Ro-”

“John, look, I’m really sorry but this came yesterday.” Molly pulls out a folded piece of paper and thrusts it at John before going back down on her haunches to kiss Rosie.

John scans the paper, a letter from the personnel department of St. Bart’s Hospital. Molly is being officially warned for all her unauthorised time off work. “Oh, Molly, I’m sorry. Of course, I never thought. It’s just-” John scrapes his hand back through his hair.

“It’s OK. Really, it is. It's just that... well, we’re not really, you know, family, so I don’t have the same leeway with work.” She stands and locks eyes with John. “I love my job, I’m good at it. It’s important and I can’t afford to throw away my career. I’ll carry on doing what I can when I’m off but I have to look after myself too.” There is a determination in her eyes John’s not sure he has ever seen before. 

“Yeah, of course, of course.” John leans in and kisses her on the cheek. “You have been a godsend the last few weeks, I don’t know how we would have got through it without you. But none of this is your mess, Molly. Thank you. For everything.” 

Molly glances down again at Rosie in her seat. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this, John and it’s going to take a long time for you to understand what I mean, but you are a lucky man. A very lucky man.” Molly pushes past him and starts down the stairs, calling back, “I’m off on Saturday. I’ll ring you. I can take Rosie or - whatever. Make sure Sherlock drinks plenty of water.” Then she is gone and out of the front door.

For a moment, John stands in the front room and contemplates what she said, only for Rosie to interrupt his thoughts with a wail. On autopilot, he unstraps her from her seat and takes her up, stripping off the heavy snow suit. He glances past the kitchen to Sherlock’s bedroom door. Widower, single father babysitting his detoxing, murderous, junkie best friend. Yep, soooo lucky. He should do the bloody lottery.

Tea made and Rosie settled on a blanket on the living room floor, John decides he should check on Sherlock. The smell assaults him as soon as he cracks open the door; rancid, stale sweat with the underlying stench of vomit. John steps back, horrified. Checking Rosie is still ok, he roots around in the kitchen drawers until he finds a pair of gloves and slips into his doctor skin. 

The curtains are closed but it is still bright enough for John to be able to go straight to the source of the smell; a pile of dirty sheets thrown in the furthest corner of the room. On the bed, Sherlock is curled up in a ball, his hands tucked into his stomach, seemingly holding it. There are no sheets left on the bed, a coverless duvet scrunched half over him and half falling off the bed. Sherlock’s face is buried in the pillows. 

Quietly, so as not to wake him, John goes to the bedside to check Sherlock is breathing ok. Short puffs of air reassure him but up close he realises the smell is not coming exclusively from the discarded sheets but also, partly, from the man himself. A spike of alarm shoots through John; unless he was on a case or freshly out of the Thames, John has never known Sherlock to be anything but scrupulous about his cleanliness. 

There had been so many indicators of the depths that Sherlock had reached. Some, like the drugs paraphernalia in the kitchen that they had dismantled, were obvious but there were many, more subtle clues. Somehow, this one makes John especially sad. Yesterday, he had thought Sherlock had been a little better; shaky, stiff and sore, still unshaven and careful in his movements but doing better.

Or maybe that is just what he had wanted to see?

The thought strikes him like a punch in the sternum. He hadn’t been thinking very clearly yesterday, wrapped in his own grief, anger and remorse, each coursing through him in an exhausting, unending cycle. He hadn’t been lecturing Sherlock about seizing the opportunities life gave them, he had been lecturing himself, berating himself for all the stupid, wasted moments. Then they had gone for cake and all the time John was seeing Sherlock doing better, telling himself that Sherlock had turned the corner. Telling himself what he wanted to hear because the alternative was unthinkable.

Collecting the foul sheets and stuffing them in the wash, John again checks on Rosie. She is happily kicking and trying to clap her hands as she lies on the floor. Reassured she is content, John returns to Sherlock’s room with a large glass of water. Sherlock’s kidney function is still on a knife edge and dehydration would be very dangerous. He has obviously been sweating heavily and will need to replace the fluid lost by vomiting.

As John places the glass on his bedside locker, Sherlock moves in his sleep, turning his head so his face is no longer buried. Standing stock still so as not to wake him, John studies him for any indicators of dehydration. It’s hard to tell in the gloom but Sherlock’s lips don’t seem to be parched and his skin appears to be OK. Sherlock’s hair is plastered to his head, curls sitting on his temple. One, in particular, is still stuck to the skin with sweat. John stands and stares, transfixed by that delicate, dark curl contrasting with pale skin. It rests just next to a brownish, yellowing bruise that covers half of Sherlock’s cheekbone and eye socket. A bruise John gave him.

How many times has he patched this mad man up? How many times has he stitched up his cuts, cleaned the grazes and rubbed arnica onto his bruises? Then he did this. 

John reaches out his hand to touch that curl, only to see that his hand is shaking. Unbidden, the memory of his fist making contact with that cheekbone pounds him, vivid and harsh. He hears Culverton’s godforsaken laugh and smells the stench of disinfectant. He sees Sherlock drop to the floor and his leg twitches as his mind vomits up the image of him kicking and kicking Sherlock. 

John’s shaking hand changes direction and moves to the edge of the duvet, slowly pulling it down to look underneath. Sherlock is wearing nothing but underwear and there, in black and blue, brown and red, yellow and green, is John’s work painted across Sherlock’s skin. Bruises all over his ribs, a stitched cut on his chest and ugly yellow pools on his belly and the top of his thighs.

John is only aware he is falling as he hits the bedside table and the glass of water knocks over, pouring into his lap. He crumples onto his knees, wide eyed and staring at Sherlock, at what he has done. A keening sound echoes around the room and, for a moment, John thinks it’s Rosie crying, until he realises it is actually coming from his own throat.

At the same time, the noise wakes Sherlock who squints and rubs his hand across his eyes, trying to make out who is in the room. Fear shoots through him until his eyes adjust and he realises it is John, sitting on the floor next to his bed and staring at him. It’s only then that he senses he is exposed. Instinctively, he grabs the duvet and curls into a defensive ball, still processing the wail that is assaulting him. 

The sudden movement jerks John from his memories only for them to be replaced with an awful realisation; Sherlock has seen it was him in the room and protected his own vulnerability. Sherlock is afraid of him.

The shame cuts through John Watson like a scimitar. He instinctively holds up his hands, open-palmed, to show that he means Sherlock no harm and shuffles backwards on his knees away from the bed. He can hear Sherlock breathing shakily. Then a croaked,

“I was dreaming. I didn’t mean to -.”

John shakes his head. “It's my fault, I shouldn’t have- I was-” John’s words fail him and he plonks himself on his backside, drawing up his knees tight.

“John, I’m sorr-”

“Don’t you dare,” growls John into his own knees. “Don’t you fucking dare apologise to me.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, until John can speak again.

“Yesterday. How did you do it?” 

“Do what?”

“When I was… upset. You came and put your arms around me. You fucking  _ held  _ me, Sherlock. How did you do it?”

“You were...” Sherlock, thirsty, sore and confused, searches for the right word, “hurting. I thought it was the right thing to do. Was it wrong? Did I misread the situation again? I thought I was getting better at-”

“No, I mean, look at you. Look at what I did to you. Jesus, Sherlock you are my  _ best friend _ and look at you. I beat you Sherlock. I k-kicked you. I have fucking  _ shot  _ people for doing less to you and you fucking  _ let  _ me. You fucking lay there and said I had the right and then... then, when  _ I _ am upset, you put your arms around me and fucking  _ hold _ me!” John’s voice rises to a shriek.

Sherlock slowly uncurls and lies out flat in his bed. It’s a fair question and he thinks he knows the answer, even if he hasn’t really admitted it to himself yet, let alone been able to say it out loud to John. He starts to form a response in his head but then decides that, if he has to have this conversation, he would prefer to be at least sitting upright, and ideally, dressed.

His thoughts are interrupted by a plaintive cry from the living room. John scrambles to his knees, rubbing at his eyes. 

“I’m coming, Rosie,” he calls through the door, “Daddy’s coming, sweetheart.” 

Sherlock swings his legs over the edge of the bed as he listens to John sweeping up his daughter and soothing her with kisses and words. He is tired; at the most he has slept about four hours and those had been full of dreams, the kind made up of flashing images, colours and emotions rather than a narrative. He glances down at himself and the battlezone of his body from his collective beatings from Ajay then John. The worst damage, though, he has done to himself.

Forcing himself onto his feet, he wraps himself in his favourite blue dressing gown. He needs a shower and there is no point to wearing pajamas just yet. 

In the kitchen John pours hot water into a jug to warm a bottle for Rosie.

“I’m sorry for waking you. Didn’t mean to. At the moment, I’m not doing a lot right. Tea?”

“Please.” Sherlock fills and drinks a glass of water, then another. For good measure, he has a third, all the time watching John go through the process of making tea while balancing Rosie on his hip. He wonders if this means he is going to escape answering John’s question. Taking the offered mug of tea, he moves slowly to his chair. Every part of him aches, partly from his broken ribs and partly from withdrawal. Suddenly, he is hit by a wave of need; longing that surges through his veins and lights up all his brain cells. All he can think about is the heroin; the blissful release, the warm, soft smothering. He groans with the power of it, collapsing into his chair, holding his head in his hands and rocking gently.

Anger follows; surging through him, driving away the pain. How many more times is he going to have to do this? How many? Sherlock throws back his head and yells.

John had been testing the milk’s temperature and nearly drops the bottle at Sherlock’s shout. Rosie cries and he shushes her. Balancing baby and bottle, he moves to Sherlock and carefully lays his hand on his friend’s shoulder, smoothing and stroking. Sherlock leans forwards and this time it is John’s turn to hold his friend’s head while the other man cries.

“It hurts, John. It always hurts so much.”

“Shh, I know, I know. You are doing so well, Sherlock. So well. Good days and bad days. You are getting there.” He strokes the top of Sherlock’s hair and tentatively, self-consciously, bends over and presses a tiny, fluttering kiss to the top of his head. 

Sherlock’s crying eases and he manages to sit up. He wipes his eyes and surprises John by putting out his arms. It takes John a fraction of a second to understand he is offering to take Rosie. 

John carefully hands over Rosie, then her bottle. He watches as Sherlock drops a kiss to her head and moves the baby into the crook of his arm. Sherlock mutters something to her about smelling bad. She draws breath to wail but Sherlock beats her to it by rubbing her bottom lip with the bottle teat and she reconsiders, considerably more interested in her food than who is giving it to her. Sherlock closes his eyes and memorises the solidity and warmth of her in his arms, the unique smell from her head and the sound of her happy glugs on the bottle.

He thinks of the woman who made her that Rosie will never get to know. Of what she did for him. Mary had always known that trouble was coming for her. Maybe, in that split second, she decided to get it over and done with, to keep it away from Rosie. He draws courage from that idea and strength from what Mary did for him. Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“I did it because I could. You were still there, in front of me, and all I had to do was reach out and touch you. You needed me and I could, so I did.”

John frowns, unsure what Sherlock is talking about for a moment. Then he remembers his own question.

“I don’t understand.”

Sherlock looks down at Rosie who is still guzzling her bottle. “That day, after Mary died. When I called to your flat and Molly gave me your message.” He continues to look at the baby, wrapping the hand that is holding her little body more firmly around her podgy leg. “Anyone, you said, but me. Your note.”

John hangs his head. The note, scrawled out at the kitchen table at 4 am after half a bottle of whiskey as Molly tried to soothe a bawling Rosie and John shook with rage.

“You made it very clear that you did not want to see me again, that we were done and that you utterly blamed me for Mary’s death, for all of it. I went straight to Wiggins that night and took everything I could get my hands on. I had been using again for four days when Mary’s DVD arrived. I had already made my decision before she suggested I could help you, reach out to you. It didn’t matter anymore, John. None of it mattered.” Sherlock looks up at John, into those blue eyes and admits the truth he has been avoiding for years.

“Culverton was just an excuse. A convenient way to explain my choice. It didn’t matter what you did to me - I didn’t care. If you had kicked me into oblivion, it would have been what I wanted. At least you were there. At least I could see you. At least you were talking to me. It would have been a good way to go. If you wanted nothing more to do with me, then I saw no reason to go on - to live.”

The two men sit in silence, each watching the baby girl reach the end of her bottle and try to push it away. 

John stares at his daughter, unseeing, as he traces back through the last seven years of his life. He thinks of the times this man, this extraordinary, brilliant man, has risked his own life to save John. Most people will never have someone do that for them. This man has done it for him at least twice and god knows how many other times he doesn’t even know about. Then he did it again for his wife. John shakes his head in disbelief and frustration at his own stupidity; his own cruelty and callousness. His shame.

Sherlock gently lifts Rosie over his shoulder and rubs her back. As they sit cheek to cheek, he turns and kisses her, believing it may be for the last time. He still cannot look at John. 

That is the second John finally sees everything clearly. Sees how selfish and self-obsessed he has become. How, time and time again, Sherlock has put him first. Well, today it stops. No more. No more distractions; no more women, no more blame. No more misdirected anger and pain. He has the bravest and kindest and wisest best friend anyone could ever have and, from this moment on, he will be Sherlock’s in every and anyway he can. They will raise this child together, be a family and nothing will come between them. Whatever else is coming their way, they will face it together. The decision lifts a weight from his chest that has been crushing him for years. 

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock glances away from Rosie and across the small space between their chairs to meet John’s eyes. He expects to see disgust and anger or, if he is lucky, pity. Instead, John’s eyes are clear and bright and he smiles at Sherlock as he speaks.

“There is something I have always meant to say. I think, really, this is my first proper chance but I am going to make damn sure it is not my last. Today, it’s my turn to make  _ you  _ a vow.

John leans across the space between the chairs. There are no tears now, just warmth and strength powered by the absolute rightness of what he is about to say.

“We have allowed too many other people to get in the way and that ends today, right now. I vow that from now on, whatever the world throws at us, I will be here, beside you where I belong. Sherlock. It is what it is. I love you too.”

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> My thanks, as always, to my beta Breath4Soul for her help. You are a treasure, Breathy. My thanks also to cumberbatchlives who created the gifset capturing that glorious sweaty curl


End file.
